i suddenly remembered this concept, and realized how much i still love it, so this little ficlet kind of wrote itself
[early s5, sam’s guilt & self-loathing, possessive/jealous dean, hurt/comfort (heavy on the hurt), vomiting]
the air in the motel bathroom is thick and wet, smelling of iron and cheap chlorine.
sam leans heavily against the edges of the porcelain sink, his whitened fingers pressing into the cracks in the enamel as his brother brutally takes him from behind.
dean’s hands are rough. hard calluses scratch the skin as his fingers dig into sam’s hips. thick and unrelenting, and agonizingly reminiscent of dad’s—the same uncompromising grip.
dean is angry. this cold anger has been poisoning him for weeks, festering since the apocalypse, since ruby, and now it finds its outlet in every sharp, cruel movement.
sam doesn’t resist. he takes this roughness as a long-awaited penance. there is something pacifying in this painful cleansing. dean is taking out his rage, purging his stress, and sam, finally, is of use to him. he can become a vessel for his brother’s pain, can absorb it into himself, paying the toll for his mistakes.
suddenly, dean’s fingers tangle ruthlessly into the grown-out hair at the nape of his neck, yanking back with force.
sam lets out an involuntary, hoarse sound as his face is tilted up.
his brother forces him to look into the murky mirror.
“want to be a good boy?” dean exhales heavily, right against his ear.
and sam, unable to tear his eyes away from his own pathetic, broken reflection, can only think: yes. always wanted to. for dad. and for you.
then dean’s words strike like a backhand, dirty, poisonous. he talks about how sam must have surrendered himself just as submissively to ruby, how he bent over for brady. about how, without a tight leash, he instantly flies off the rails; that he needs constant control, or else he’ll reach for the filth all over again. sam stays stubbornly silent, clenching his teeth until his jaw hurts. he tries to cling to the pitiful remains of his pride, to keep the illusion of independence, but the grip on his hair tightens, and his brother’s words drive through him like nails.
every accusation is true.
sam lets out a sob, his shoulders trembling.
a pathetic, desperate “sorry” tears from his throat.
“’sorry’ isn’t enough,” he grinds out, pressing his chest into sam’s back. “you need to be cleaned out. scrape this trash right out of you. all that demon blood you guzzled down like a drug.”
and before sam can flinch away, dean’s fingers invade his mouth with crude authority, pressing down on the very root of his tongue.
sam’s body twists in a spasm. a brutal gag reflex turns him inside out, making him shudder over the sink, expelling bile, bitterness, and the phantom blackness of his sins. he is choking, tears streaming down his cheeks, and dean holds him firmly, controlling every convulsion of his body.
he barely hears dean’s relieved moan. barely feels warm wetness drip between his legs.
when the spasm recedes, sam goes limp, hollowed out and shivering. there is nothing left inside. he feels absolutely sick, frail, and wants to cry, thin and desperate, like a little boy who has just been severely punished by his father.
dean is breathing heavily, raggedly. his hands slide from sam’s hair to his hips, then settle on his back, patting rhythmically.
“that’s my boy,” dean exhales, absolute satisfaction in his hoarse voice.
sam hears his own quiet sobbing as if from far away. he closes his eyes, feeling the measured thump of the palm against his back.
“hey, hey, sammy. you’re good. you’re good now.”
dean’s cold, wet hands touch his skin again, cupping his jaw, rough fingers wiping away the sticky traces of tears and saliva from his burning, flushed face. he hears the rusty water run, carrying the bitterness down the drain.
sam thinks only of how he wants dean to never stop touching him, to just keep repeating those words forever.
